


iii. how can i hold your heart

by peterstank



Series: his greatest creation [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Irondad, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2020-09-26 22:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterstank/pseuds/peterstank
Summary: They are little beats, the aftershocks of his last moments in this house. She can picture him rushing from his bathroom to his closet and back again, his toothbrush hanging from his lips, his shirt untucked, maybe talking to Peter over his shoulder.He had been here. A week ago, he had been here and he had been fine.Now he’s just gone. All that’s left are the remnants of a busy morning, a ghost of Tom Ford cologne.or:tony is meant to be in afghanistan for three days. that’s all.it takes him three months to come home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seekrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekrest/gifts).

> this one for my mama, cuz we all about parental love in this house tonight. i love you bitch,,,ain’t never gonna stop lovin you,,,,biiiiitch
> 
> no but seriously ILY I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT

  
_“i will love you if i never see you again_

_and_

_i will love you if i see you every day.”_

* * *

“I don’t wanna eat the peas, they’re mushy and gross.”

“You wanna know what’s mushy and gross?” Tony leans down and presses kiss after kiss to Peter’s face, on his cheeks and forehead and nose, much to Peter’s apparent displeasure. “I’ll show you mushy and gross, kiddo.”

Peter pouts. He’s been working that look for about a week now, ever since Tony announced he’d be flying to the Middle East for the Jericho presentation. 

“Do you have to go?” he asks (for probably the thousandth time). 

Tony sighs. He pulls out the chair beside Peter’s and sits so they’re at eye level. “Yeah, I really have to.”

“Obie can’t do it for you?”

“Obie isn’t the face of the company,” Tony reminds him. “Obie is the man behind the curtain. People wanna hear from Oz, kiddo.”

Peter’s face twists. “I hate the _Wizard of Oz._”

“You and me both. God, what a weird movie.”

Peter squirms in his chair and sets his fork down. He doesn’t look very hungry anymore and Tony can’t blame him. He feels sick just thinking about leaving _yet again._ It’s the fourth time this month and it’s beginning to grate on them both. 

“Hey, blue?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you feel like…”

Tony trails off, unable to really get the words out. After an impatient few seconds Peter prods his cheek. “Nevermind,” Tony says. He forces a smile. “It’s just two days, right? I’ll be a hop skip and a plane ride away, back before you know it.”

“I’ll know it,” Peter mutters. 

Tony sighs. He reaches out and runs his hand through Peter’s increasingly unruly curls. Peter leans into the touch. Before either of them can start crying or worse, Tony presses a kiss to his son’s forehead and rises. “Eat your peas. Be good. I love you.”

Peter scowls at his plate and then tilts his head to look at Tony. “I’ll throw my peas away, be bad, and miss you.”

Tony grins. “Yeah well, you know what they say.” He pokes Peter’s chest. “I’m right there.”

“I can’t see you if you’re inside my heart.”

“Really? I’ll have to install a little window so you can check out your right ventricle. Best seat in the house.”

Peter shakes his head. “You’re a dumb.”

“A dumb who loves you.”

Peter considers that. “You’ll be back Monday?”

“Monday,” Tony repeats, kissing his head one last time. “Not a day later. Promise.”

* * *

Monday passes just like any other. Peter gets up at seven, brushes his teeth, sits in the back of Happy’s car and draws patterns on the condensation covered windows, pretends to be Peter Parker so well he forgets for a minute that he’s _not_, finishes all of his work before anyone else in his class, and comes home with two new bruises under his shirt to show for it.

There’s no one home. 

“How about lunch?” asks Happy. 

He doesn’t even wait for Peter to reply. Happy ducks into the kitchen and goes about making them both a grilled cheese sandwich—Happy is actually a really good cook—while Peter perches at the counter almost cautiously, ears perked for any sound of doors unlocking, keys jingling, a suitcase being set down on the floor.

Nothing comes. It’s just pots and pans and sizzling butter.

Peter sighs. _Not a day later._ Of course it hadn’t been true. His dad always ends up being late no matter how hard he tries otherwise. 

“Why do people make promises they can’t keep?” Peter asks somewhat testily, after about ten minutes of combing through his life science packet while Happy bustles around him.

Happy sets Peter’s sandwich down in front of him with a raised eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It _means_ I think it’s stupid to tell someone you’ll be home on a certain day when you _won’t_ actually be home.”

Happy sighs. “You know he’d be here if he could.”

Peter doesn’t have anything to say to that. He knows it’s true. Begrudgingly he sets his pencil down and eats the grilled cheese because at least this way he won’t have to talk.

Happy doesn’t mind the quiet. In fact Peter thinks he prefers it, but every once in a while he sends Peter concerned glances.   
  


Peter ignores them. 

“Kid…”

No more sandwich. No more problems in his homework packet. 

“...Yeah?”

“You wanna tell me why this is bothering you so much?”

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugs. Considers it. “I have a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“Yeah. A feeling.”

Happy studies him. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

They both look down at their empty plates. Peter traces the edge of his with a frown. It probably doesn’t mean anything, right? His dad is _always_ leaving and coming back. 

It doesn’t mean anything. 

It definitely, _definitely_ doesn’t mean _anything_ at all. 

* * *

It means something.

Peter knows that from the second he opens his eyes the following morning. Not only is there a sickening, heavy dread rolling in his stomach; but Pepper is sitting at the end of his bed.

She’s holding her clipboard, flip phone, and pen. When Peter sits up she straightens and smiles, but it’s not genuine. It’s just a mask to hide her red-rimmed eyes and ruddy cheeks. 

“Morning, Peter.”

“He’s still not home?”

Pepper’s smile falters. “No.”

“Is he…?”

That’s when it falls entirely and Peter realises she doesn’t have an answer for him. She doesn’t _know_. She doesn’t know whether his father is okay or not, if he’s alive or if he’s…

Pepper takes his hand. “Peter, look at me.”

Peter looks even though he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to do anything but go back to sleep until the person waiting by his bed is his dad. 

“Rhodey is looking for him,” she says. “Everyone is trying to find him. It’s only been a day, okay? We’ll… he’ll be back soon.”

Peter nods even as it dawns on him that she doesn’t know that. How could she possibly know that? She can’t. He might not ever come back. He might be gone forever. 

But Peter can’t stomach that idea. He swallows roughly and wraps his arms around Pepper, because he thinks that might be what _she’s_ thinking; that something really bad happened and there’s nothing they can do.

Pepper holds him. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

“It’s not your fault.”

She breathes in and out. Once, twice.

“Do you want to stay home from school? We could watch movies and bake that cookie recipe I was telling you about.”

Peter considers that. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that if he stays home there’s no one to stick up for Mikey, the littlest kid in class who gets picked on only marginally less than Peter simply because Peter is always taking hits for him.

“I should go,” he whispers.

Pepper nods. “Okay, kiddo.”

* * *

WEEK ONE

* * *

“There’s a video.”

Pepper stops in her tracks and turns, slowly, to the sound of Rhodey’s voice.

“From him?”

_From him,_ because there is a lingering, petulant fear that maybe Tony just skipped out. Maybe he was tired of being a father, tired of heading the company. 

(But really, it’s the least plausible scenario out of all the ones she’s run in her head; Tony loves Peter in an incomprehensible, all-consuming, _you’re my universe_ kind of way. He’d never leave him, never abandon him, never give up on him. Still, it is the safest one. It is the one that doesn’t end in blood. She will always take tears over blood.)

Rhodey corrects her. 

“_Of_ him.”

Pepper sucks in a sharp breath. She glances at the entrance to the living room where she can see Peter. He’s huddled up in a fort made of star-print sheets and twinkle lights and physics textbooks for weights. His eyes are on the TV, but his ears are perked up.

“Okay,” Pepper whispers, hands shaking, “okay—”

“Pepper, I haven’t even seen it. Some higher ups received it, said it was heavily embedded. They won’t let me watch it—”

“They _won’t let you—?!_” 

Outrage, a whiplash of Virginia fire, the spark her mother had left her (the _only_ thing her mother had left her). 

Rhodey holds up a placating hand. “Listen, I get it. I mean, I… maybe I don’t. But they gathered all the relevant information, and…”

“And?”

Rhodey’s eyes flit to Peter. His face softens. His voice lowers. “He’s being held captive by a terrorist group known as the Ten Rings.”

It’s like the terror was only a crack away from bursting through her glass wall of denial, and then all of the sudden it is rushing at her, consuming her, drowning her.

Rhodey puts his hand on her shoulder. “Pepper?”

“Do you know?” Pepper whispers. “Where he is? How long it might take…? I mean, they demanded something, right? So just give them—”

“They want weapons.”

_Oh_. 

Pepper’s breathing hitches. She wrings her hands. Closes her eyes. “They’re going to have him make them anyway, aren’t they?”

“Probably.”

She’ll kill them. God, she’ll kill every last one of them with her bare hands if she has to. _How dare they? _

“Uncle Rhodey?”

They both start and round on Peter, who to his credit probably hadn’t even tried to sneak up. Pepper is just stuck in a fog, trying to discern one screaming thought from the next. 

Rhodey kneels. He opens his arms and Peter launches right into them. “Hey, Boo-Boo.”

It doesn’t get Peter to crack a smile like always. He holds Rhodey tightly and squeezes his eyes shut like he wants to block out the rest of the room, of the world. Pepper knows the feeling.

“How are you holding up?”

Peter shrugs as he pulls back. “Is he gonna be home soon?”

Rhodey falters. “I… God, kiddo, I wish I knew.”

He’s choosing to be honest. Instead of throwing false hopes at Peter he’s being straight with him. It’s certainly a better approach than the breezy assurances Pepper has tossed at him for the past three days. 

Still, better isn’t _best_, and Peter looks too old, the expression on his face is too grave. 

“Okay,” he whispers. And then, almost like he’s the adult, almost like he is the one who wants to protect _them_, he takes Rhodey’s hand and pulls him toward his fort. “Wanna watch movies with me?”

Rhodey glances at Pepper, then at Peter, and nods. “I’d love to.”

* * *

That weekend Peter has his first nightmare.

Roberta is meant to be watching him but Pepper ends up staying late. So late, in fact, that she decides to just spend the night. 

The respectful choice would be to take the guest room. The right, _professional_ choice. 

And yet somehow Pepper finds herself hovering in the doorway to Tony’s bedroom, staring at the bed that hadn’t been made up that morning, at the tie thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair, at the dress shirt discarded on the floor. 

They are little beats, the aftershocks of his last moments in this house. She can picture him rushing from his bathroom to his closet and back again, his toothbrush hanging from his lips, his shirt untucked, maybe talking to Peter over his shoulder.

He had been here. A week ago he had been here and he had been fine. 

Now he’s just gone. All that’s left are the remnants of a busy morning, a ghost of Tom Ford cologne.

Pepper steels herself and it’s just when she’s slipping out of her heels that she hears it: strained, muffled sobbing. 

She doesn’t waste any time crossing the hall. Peter’s room is dark. Pepper rushes to the bedside and flicks on his lamp. Warm, golden light floods to every corner.

Peter is curled up in a ball and shaking with tears. 

“Peter?” Pepper shakes his shoulder. “Peter, honey, wake up.”

All she gets in response is a sob. The sound tugs at her heartstrings. She follows her instinct and instead of jostling him, wraps her arms around him and pulls him closer. “Hey,” she whispers. “Everything’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Peter wakes himself up with his own tears. The imprint his nightmare leaves only makes him cry harder. He curls up against Pepper and it’s not until he cries, “_I want Daddy_,” that she breaks a little.

“God, kiddo, I’m so sorry. I wish he were here too.”

“Something is _wrong_,” Peter sobs. He turns his tearful, flushed face up to plead with her. “He’s not okay. I can _feel it._”

“Peter, it was just a dream—”

“It _wasn’t!_”

“Okay,” Pepper assures quickly, “okay, I believe you. How about you take some deep breaths for me, alright?”

It takes him a minute to do as she’s asking, but soon enough he’s latching onto her every word, eyes wide and scared and open. 

“Better?”

He nods shakily. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Being stupid,” Peter whispers. “I know it was just a bad dream, but it _felt_ so _real_…” 

Pepper tilts his face up. “You’re not stupid for being scared. I’m scared, too.”

Maybe it’s not the best thing to say under the circumstances; she’s supposed to be the strong one here, the solid rock for him to lean against. But Peter relaxes anyway. Maybe it helps him to know he’s not alone in the fear, that it isn’t irritational.

In that way, it helps Pepper, too.

“Are you leaving?”

“No,” Pepper tells him. “I’m staying right here.”

“Okay.” Peter nods. The next thing she knows he’s slipping off the bed and taking her hand. Pepper lets him lead her along, slightly stupefied at the change of pace. 

They stop in front of Tony’s room. 

“Grandma Robbie always lets me sleep in here when he’s gone and I miss him,” Peter tells her. “It helps.”

Pepper squeezes his hand. She doesn’t know if he means _help_ for him, for her, or for both of them, but she falls against the feather mattress with the silk sheets anyway. 

It smells like him. It’s oak aftershave and expensive body spray and _Tony_, all around them, with them, even if he’s really just a ghost.

Peter curls up next to her. He hugs a pillow to his chest and blinks at her in the darkness. “He’ll come back. He always comes back.”

* * *

WEEK THREE

* * *

“You’re getting crumbs all over my book.”

DUM-E stills. The handful of potato chips he’d been about to hand Peter fall limply out of his claw. 

Instantly Peter feels bad. He knows his dad snaps at the bot a lot, but it’s supposed to be playful. Peter makes a point to always be nice to DUM-E just in case. His small lapse makes them both quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers eventually, while he carefully picks up the chips. “It’s just…”

It’s been three weeks. It’s been almost a _month_. Peter’s never been without his father for so long and he misses him so much it aches. 

DUM-E’s claw lands heavily on Peter’s shoulder, falling up and down in a gentle patting motion. 

Peter manages the smallest, most broken smile. 

“He’ll be okay,” he says, because even if DUM-E doesn’t need him to be strong, it’s better than letting himself finally fall apart. 

DUM-E whirls like he’s trying to stay strong too. He gently prods Peter’s cheek, his metal claw cool against Peter’s skin. 

Peter settles back against the desk after taking the claw in his own hand. He holds it while he reads.

* * *

“You have a lot of books.”

Pepper’s apartment isn’t nearly the way he’d expected it to look. He’d been picturing something bigger and cleaner and open. Probably because of how she dresses, not a hair out of place ever. She’s like a real life Disney Princess.

Pepper pokes her head out from around the corner. She comes out carrying a basket of laundry which she sets next to Peter on the low loveseat. “I do,” she says, starting to fold her clothes. “A lot of them are old college textbooks I haven’t gotten around to donating yet.”

Peter scans the living room, a puzzle of antique furniture and candles and stacks upon stacks of books, papers, files. It shouldn’t all fit together but somehow, with the TV playing softly in the background and the hum of the city beating outside, it just does.

Peter reaches into the basket to help her, which earns him an indulgent (if exasperated) smile. 

“So now that you have temporary custody of me, I’m staying here?”

She slows. Carefully creases the edge of a pair of slacks. Studies him. “If you’re okay with that. If not, we can always stay at your dad’s place.”

It’s not that he doesn’t like Pepper’s apartment, or that he’s really all that dead set on staying at home. It’s too big and white and empty. There’s not even his dad tinkering in the garage to stave off the silence anymore. It’s just… quiet, all the time. Even when Peter turns on every radio and every TV and even the stereo with the lame jazz records in the hallway, it’s not enough. 

“I’d still have my own room?”

“Of course. I have a spare next to mine. We can bring your things here, or go out and buy new things. Whatever you want.” 

Peter thinks on that. While he thinks, he folds. 

“I guess… new stuff.”

“Any particular reason why?”

It’s not him trying to be a greedy kid and get twice as many toys. “It just… it would feel like I’m… leaving him behind, I guess. If I moved out all the way. But if I don’t, it’s just like…”

“An extra long sleepover?”

Peter smiles. “Yeah, that.”

Pepper nods like it makes sense, even though Peter thinks it might be sorta stupid. They fold in silence until the basket is half empty, at which point a black furry _thing_ hops up onto the back of the couch with a bell-like trill.

Peter blinks owlishly. “You have a cat?”

“Peter, meet Muffin,” she says, gently scooping the cat up and handing him over. “He won’t scratch, don’t worry.”

Peter gingerly takes the cat. He hasn’t been around animals a whole lot. A couple times, Grandma Robbie and Uncle Rhodey took him to the zoo, so he’s _seen_ them. But holding a cat is totally different.

Muffin looks up at him with blown pupils and starts to purr.

“Oh,” Peter says. “Uh, hi.”

Muffin meows again. He butts his head against Peter’s hand and arches his back, slinking around him like a very furry, very fat snake. 

“He likes you,” Pepper tells him.

Peter smiles. 

So maybe living here won’t be so bad after all.

* * *

WEEK FIVE

* * *

“Remember: seeds, never bread,” Grandma Robbie says, opening the brown paper bag. “Bad for ‘em, and all.”

“Right.” Peter peeks into the bag and then scans the boardwalk. There are pelicans roaming, white-grey blobs against the pale blue sky. “I think I need glasses.”

Robbie hums in agreement. “I’ve seen you squintin’. We’ll work on that. But first: the birds.”

“Okay.” He waits. “Why are we feeding birds, again?”

“Because you needed something to do that wasn’t sticking your nose in a book or watching that damn TV until you think everything’s a cartoon.”

“I can distinguish between real life and television—”

“Don’t try to make yourself sound more mature by using big words,” Robbie says. “They don’t belong in that small mouth.”

“You’ll stunt my growth.”

Robbie scoffs. “What growth? Baby, you’re as tiny as the day I first met you.” 

Peter looks down at himself. That’s probably true. 

Still, “I meant my mental growth. Or development. I think.”

Robbie gives him a Look. “There’s no need to talk smart. Just be it.”

Peter mulls on that. Then he reaches into the bag and grabs a handful of seeds; he scatters them along the wooden planks beneath their feet. 

“What if people think I’m stupid?”

Another Look. “Do you _worry_ about that sort of thing?”

Peter shrugs. He scans the horizon where the sky meets the sea. It’s all blue, but the water is darker, covered in a million golden sparks from the sun. “I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t really matter what other people think, though, does it? All that matters is what you know.”

Peter turns around and climbs back onto the bench, facing her rather than the ocean. He tucks his legs beneath his knees. “Do you think—”

“Don’t ask me about your daddy.”

“But I just—”

“Baby.” Robbie faces him, too. “There’s a whole horde of people looking for him. Every day, they’re looking. Every day you ask me, and every day I don’t have an answer. I _wish_ I did, but I don’t. I think at this point I’m just hurting us both.”

Peter bites his lip. “Can you tell me a story about him though?”

Robbie whacks him lightly. “Well _of course,_” she says. “I don’t know why you didn’t ask sooner. Your daddy and uncle were always gettin’ into all colours of trouble in college.”

She launches into a story about their sophomore year, when they accidentally blew up a trash can in Chem lab after hours, locked themselves in, and had to bust out of a window to avoid dying of smoke inhalation. 

“That was a happy story. Why you over there lookin’ sad?”

“I just… I _hate_ that he’s not here.” 

“We _all_ hate it, baby. And we gonna keep hatin, and we gonna keep lookin, and keep missin’, and keep _faith_ until the day your daddy comes home. I promise you that.” 

Peter nods, but it’s shaky and Robbie doesn’t miss that. She doesn’t miss _anything_. “Look at me.”

Peter looks. She grabs his chin anyway. “Life might kick you in the teeth a time or two, but that don’t mean you gotta stop smilin’, you hear?”

“I hear.”

“Good.” She lets go and smooths back his hair. “He’ll come home to you. I know it in my bones.”

If Peter has learned one thing in his seven years, it’s that her bones are never wrong.

* * *

“Ms Potts, what I’m telling you is that your son is exceptionally gifted,” says Principal Wiess, leaning forward to regard her seriously—almost gravely. 

“And that’s a bad thing because…?”

“Because, while I love my school, our curriculum just isn’t engaging enough for Peter. My subordinates report that he appears utterly bored in class. Sometimes he even falls asleep, and yet he still manages to pull top marks out of his back pocket. Someone as bright as him, with as much potential as he has, needs to be _challenged_, Ms Potts.”

Pepper shifts in her seat. “What are you proposing, then?”

“That he transfer.” Principal Wiess hands over a pamphlet before she can even protest. “_This_ is one option of several, but I believe it’s the best fit for him. St. Ophelia’s holds high standards and has a competitive, creative atmosphere.”

“You’re suggesting a private school?”

“With all due respect, Ms Potts, that may be the only way for him to receive the education he needs.”

Pepper takes a deep breath. Her eyes fall to the credentials on his walls, and then the placard on his desk, and the mustard stain on his tie. 

“I can’t just uproot him.”

Wiess raises his hands placatingly. “And while I understand that, I urge you to consider the benefits before you come to any final decision.”

It occurs to her then that this now falls on her. Sure, she’s been named as Peter’s guardian in all of his school forms for years, but it was all just a facade. Tony had been making the decisions, pulling all the strings from the shadows. Now there’s no one. It’s just her and a seven year old kid that she is fully and completely responsible for. 

“Peter… we’re dealing with familial issues at the moment. What’s best for him right now is a stable, familiar environment.”

Wiess leans back. “You know, everyone always says that. But when my parents were divorcing, all I wanted was a distraction.”

Pepper chews on that somewhat reluctantly. She studies the pamphlet, which has images of kids in blue and white uniforms, blue and white jerseys playing soccer, blue and white ties staring attentively up at an off-camera teacher.

“If you’re worried about tuition—”

“The money isn’t a concern.”

Wiess falters. “Well, I have to admit, that’s a first.”

Pepper shrugs. “My… husband is—was—from a well off family. Peter’s education will be fully funded no matter where he decides to attend.”

“Then, if I may ask, what exactly is it? Aside from the change of pace—”

“Schools like this can be rigorous,” Pepper says at last. “The last thing I want is for him to get swept up in a mountain of homework, made fun of because he doesn’t come from stock his fellow students recognise, or downgraded by biased teachers. They take one look at a kid who just transferred from public and they’ll all assume he’s some scholarship student taking some kid’s spot who actually deserves it.”

Wiess blinks. “While I’m sure that’s all very daunting, consider what would happen if you don’t transfer Peter now: his grades will fall because he won’t see the reward in earning good ones, his interest in academia will decrease until it simply ceases to exist. Ms Potts—”

“Mr Wiess,” Pepper says, rising, “I appreciate your concern for Peter, but I’m afraid there’s no way I’m going to take him out of a place where he has friends just to—”

“Friends?”

Pepper freezes. “Yes. Friends.”

Wiess stares. “Oh, god. Of course. They never tell, do they? I should’ve made more of an effort to—”

“Tell me what.”

Wiess shakes off his surprise at her flat, dangerous tone. “Peter is bullied, Ms Potts. He has been nearly all semester.”

“And you didn’t think to _call?_”

“I have been calling,” Wiess insists. “The number you gave me, remember? I left several messages—”

Pepper stops listening. The beat of her own frantic heartbeat tunes out whatever the hell it is he says next. 

It’s Tony’s number. He has _Tony’s_ number. Whatever voicemails he’s left have gone unnoticed because since February, no one has been around to check them. 

“What do they do?”

Wiess falters. “The bullies?”

“Yes, the bullies, Mr Wiess.”

“Oh, well… the usual? Name calling, ostracizing, the occasional physical incident—we’re always sure to break them up as soon as they’re noticed, but—” 

“Excuse me,” Pepper whispers. 

She tears out of the office as fast as she can manage in a pair of three inch Louis Vuitton heels and just barely makes it to the parking lot before vomiting into a poorly trimmed hedge. 

_Physical incident physical incident physical incident_

* * *

WEEK SIX

* * *

“Do you like your school?”

Peter pauses, chopsticks full of chow mien halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

Pepper looks like she’s thinking about what to say next. Slowly Peter sets down his food. They’re eating straight from the cartons, sitting underneath Pepper’s kitchen table rather than at it because it’s storming outside and they like it better this way.

“Peter, are you happy there?”

Peter shrugs. They’re edging far too close to territory he’s not exactly comfortable with. A part of him, deep down, super secretly, wants Pepper to keep asking. He wants someone to finally know how much it hurts, how often, why it happens. He wants someone to help him.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“But if you had the chance to go somewhere else, somewhere… better, maybe? Somewhere you felt like you were really learning?”

“I feel like I’m learning.”

Pepper sets her carton down. “Peter, what’s the Pythagorean Theorem?”

“A squared plus b squared equals c squared,” Peter recites easily, and then stills.

“And did you learn that in Ms Jefferson’s class?”

“...Maybe?”

Pepper sighs. “Kid, level with me: how much time in that class do you actually spend doing work?”

Peter debates whether or not he should lie. It’s not that switching schools sounds _bad_, exactly (maybe scary, a little), it’s just that if he leaves there’s no one to look out for the littler kids. 

But Pepper does that magic thing where she draws the truth right out of him. 

“I guess, like, a few minutes?”

Pepper nods. She reaches out and gently extracts his food from his grip. 

“They’re picking on you.”

It’s not a question.

Peter feels cold. 

“I-I mean, it’s not that much, and it’s only because Tommy likes to push Mikey around and Mikey’s like, even smaller than me, so I always make sure to make Tommy mad first and—”

“Hey, hey,” Pepper’s voice is soothing and level and it immediately stops him short, calms him. “I’m not mad at you, honey.”

“No?”

“Of _course_ not.” Pepper shoots closer so their kneecaps touch. “But it’s important not to hold yourself back for things like this—”

“But Mikey—”

“I’ll speak to Tommy’s parents,” Pepper says, still even. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen anymore, okay?”

Peter swallows. The idea is just too good to be true. Every day except weekends for the past three months he’s had his lunch stolen, stepped on, ripped apart. He’s endured the jeering calls of Poopy Parker, gotten hit in the stomach and ribs and kicked so hard he bled and bruised… 

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Peter takes a deep breath. He decides to trust her. 

“I think… I think maybe we could look into another school?”

Pepper smiles. She reaches out and strokes his cheek, something that had been a rarity before but now seems almost commonplace. 

“Okay, kiddo.”

* * *

WEEK SEVEN

* * *

“I bet he’s dead.”

It’s been four days since Pepper sat down with Tommy Lawson’s parents and told them in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t tolerate their son bullying hers. Well, bullying her _fake_ son, anyway. 

(sometimes Peter wishes that weren’t the case, but he’s never told her and doesn’t plan to any time soon)

So for three days Peter’s been walking the halls of his elementary school relatively unbothered. He’d only gotten a few snarky comments about his new glasses—round and golden-framed, he’s been branded _Peter Potter _since Tuesday—but that was all. 

Until now.

They’re sitting in the outdoor cafeteria. Peter is alone like always, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t like having to talk while he eats these days. In fact, he doesn’t really like talking at all anymore. 

For the first half of the meal he gets swept up in the endless drone of monotonous conversation, a dull hum like a hive of swarming bees thrumming against the walls of his skull. He pushes his practically inedible food around on his tray, and then he hears it.

Tommy and his best friend, Mitchel—but only his mom calls him that, everyone else calls him Mitch—huddled together with the rest of their group, laughing.

Laughing because they’re taking bets over whether Tony Stark is dead or not.

He doesn’t _want_ to listen, but even when he tries not to he can’t help himself. 

“Probably got blown into so many tiny pieces they can’t even tell it’s him,” Mitchel mutters, and Tommy laughs.

But it’s not funny. 

Peter shoots to his feet so quickly his chair topples over with a clatter. His heart is pounding so loudly he can barely hear it. He also doesn’t hear what Tommy says to him, but he knows he’s speaking, can see his mouth moving, lips contorting into a smirk.

“W-what?”

“I _said_, is there a _problem_, Parker?”

Peter blinks once and then twice, trying to push away the mental image of his dad _like that_, ripped into so many pieces like a puzzle cards with the tabs torn off. _You can’t fix stupid and you can’t fix dead_, Robbie had told him once. 

“He’s not… he’s not…”

“_He’s not,_” Tommy mocks, coming closer. Mitchel is right behind him and so are all the rest, and now everyone is watching and Peter is scanning for teachers but there are none. Where are they? Why are they never around when they’re supposed to be?

“Looking for your mommy to hold your hand?” Tommy asks. He shoves Peter’s shoulder. “What, are you scared of me, Parker?” 

Peter swallows. “I-I’m not—”

“I think you are.” Tommy looks down at him with all of his eight year old wisdom. There’s not much of it. “What’s got you so spooked if it’s not me, then?”

“He’s not dead,” Peter blurts, because he can’t think of anything else to say. He has to say it, has to toss the words out into the universe so they’re heard by whatever cosmic entity makes the choice of who lives or dies; so they can hear his desperation for the words to be true. 

Tommy makes a face. “What’s it to you?”

It’s not _supposed_ to be anything, but it’s _everything_. 

“He’s _not dead,_” Peter repeats, firmer now. It’s decided. He won’t let anything else be the truth. 

Tommy smirks. “What, you got a crush on him or something? Little Peeny Porker _loooves_ Tony Stark—”

The next thing Peter knows they’re both on the ground. At first it’s Peter on top, Peter throwing a punch, his knuckles colliding with Tommy’s jaw. Then it’s the other way around. Then someone is hauling Tommy off of him, and everyone is talking, screaming, _fight fight fight,_ but it’s all just roaring to Peter. He bounces off the chain link fence and hurtles back at Tommy, gets two more punches in, sees blood spray, and then a whistle blows.

The sharp sound pierces through the cresting waves of anger, through all the red. Peter is grabbed by the scruff of his neck, same with Tommy. Between them is Principal Wiess.

He doesn’t look at all pleased. “My office. Now.”

* * *

Pepper is already swamped when she gets the phone call. It’s the last day of the quarter and there are shipping oversights, expense reports, and a whole host of other things that have her running from floor to floor to meeting after meeting. None of this is even her _job_, but who else is going to do it? 

It makes her stop dead when she answers her cellphone and hears Mr Wiess’ voice on the other end of the line. 

He states what happened very clearly: Peter and Tommy got into what can only be described as a brawl. There are two broken noses, a sprained wrist, and a shattered pair of glasses as a result.

It only takes her a few minutes to get down to the school. The hallways are empty with all the other kids tucked away in the classrooms she rushes past to get to the Principal’s office.

Peter is sitting on one chair with his head hanging low while Tommy sits in another, scowling at Mr Wiess.

“Ms Potts.”

Pepper can’t tear her eyes from Peter, with his red raw knuckles and tear stained cheeks and the trail of poorly cleaned blood running from his nostrils to his chin. 

“Mr Wiess.”

“Please sit.”

Pepper blinks. “No thank you.”

“Ms Potts, I’m afraid we have a lot to discuss—”

“We don’t have anything to discuss,” Pepper snaps. “I’m taking Peter home.”

“But we haven’t even bothered to—” he cuts himself off. “Boys, please step into the hall for a moment.”

Once they’re gone and the door is safely closed behind them, Pepper steps forward. 

“With all due respect, Mr Wiess, but you were very aware of the situation between my son and Tommy Lawson. The fact that it escalated to this point is the result of extreme negligence by you and your staff.”

“Negligence?”

“_Yes_, negligence. Did you even bother to discipline Tommy _once?_ Was he ever suspended or threatened with expulsion?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Exactly, which is why it’s no surprise to me that it came to this.”

“Ms Potts, Mr Lawson’s parents are on the school board,” he tells her in a low, serious tone. “There was very little I was able to do from a disciplinary standpoint.”

Pepper takes a deep breath. “Peter is a good kid,” she tells him. 

“And yet he instigated the fight.”

There is a heartbeat pause, and then:

“Excuse me?”

“Witnesses report that it was Peter who threw the first punch, Ms Potts.”

“Witnesses? You mean all of those other kids too afraid to step on Tommy’s toes? And moreover, just because Peter was _physical_ first doesn’t mean he wasn’t _instigated_ into doing this. And _beyond_ that, Tommy’s been pushing him around all year! He threw the first punches and we _both_ know it.”

Mr Wiess sighs. He looks tired, drawn, worn down. Pepper imagines she looks much the same way. 

“While that may be true—”

“It’s definitely true—”

“I’m in a very difficult situation. Mr Lawson’s parents want to expel Peter.”

Pepper’s blood goes cold. “They can’t do that. It’s too much of a conflict of interest.”

“They don’t seem to think so, and my hands are tied. The rest of the board is willing to side with them. They’re all under the Lawson’s thumbs.”

“This is _ridiculous_—”

“I _know_.” Mr Wiess lays his hands flat on the table. “Which is why I believe it would be in your best interest to transfer Peter to St. Ophelia’s.”

“You think they’ll take him after _this?!_”

“I think if you quietly pulled Peter from the school before he could be officially expelled, I would be able to keep that and this… incident… off of his record.”

Pepper purses her lips. She can’t even bother to look at him, so she glares out the window instead. “And what about Tommy?”

“There’s very little I’m able to do beyond keeping a closer eye on him.”

It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

But if Peter leaves, neither of them have to worry about that kid ever again. 

“You’d really expunge it from his record if I withdrew him?”

“I would.”

Pepper takes a deep breath. It’s not what Tony would have wanted. He’d been adamant about sending Peter to a regular school so that he knew what it was like to be a normal kid. He’d wanted Peter to be around kids his own age, ones whose only concerns weren’t being the top of the class. He’d scrunched his face up when Pepper initially suggested somewhere private, said, _Disgusting, no, absolutely not, _and that had been the end of it.

But what if it’s what’s best? Beyond that, it’s the only option they have left.

“Alright. Okay. We’ll transfer him.”

* * *

Peter swallows back stomach acid as he trails after Pepper through the long halls of the office building. It’s bright and open and _everyone_ is staring at him.

“Okay,” Pepper says. She sounds so tired and that makes Peter feel _awful_. “Stay in my office. I’ll come and get you in a little while, alright? And remember, if anyone asks you, you’re my nephew.”

Peter glances at her desk with the spinny chair that would normally excite him. It doesn’t so much now. He looks back up at her, sees the frown she hasn’t dropped since they walked out of the school building he’ll never return to again, and his eyes start to burn and water. 

“Pepper—”

Her name is a choked sob falling from his lips and Pepper kneels in front of him without hesitation. She wipes away the tears as they fall. “Peter, look at me.”

He looks. 

“Why’d you do it?”

Peter shakes his head while he cries. He tries to breathe but he just _can’t_ and every single one just gets shorter and shorter and—

“Peter?”

“_Inhaler_,” he chokes.

Pepper scrambles to her feet. He’s barely aware of her rifling through her desk for the emergency inhaler he knows she keeps on hand. The next thing he knows it’s being held up to his mouth and his lungs are filling with albuterol.

“Better?” she asks, after a small pause.

Peter nods. The attack hadn’t been too bad. He’s had worse, anyway.

“Tommy… he said dad was… he said he was _dead_.”

Pepper’s expression darkens. “And that’s why you hit him?”

“No!” Peter insists. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I hit him because he’s hit _me_ so many times.”

Pepper sighs. “Violence wasn’t the answer here Peter.”

“I know.”

She tucks her hand underneath his chin and raises his hanging head. “You can’t do things like this. We got lucky this time, but it could’ve been a lot worse, understand?”

Peter nods. He feels a little better, a little more assured that she doesn’t hate him, when Pepper runs her fingers through his hair. “It’ll be okay, sweetie.”

He wants to believe her, but a part of him is too scared to even process the words. He’s stuck in a rut of fear and guilt, and all he can think is _probably got blown to so many pieces they can’t even tell it’s him_ and _you can’t fix dead_ and _I’ll be a hop skip and a plane ride away, okay?_

Peter hugs Pepper. It’s all he can think to do. He needs someone to hold. He needs someone to hold _him_. If he doesn’t have that, he’ll just keep floating higher and higher with the inflating bubble of anxiety in his stomach.

But Pepper wraps her arms around him and keeps him safe, secure, grounded. She runs one hand up and down his back and cradles his head with the other. 

“I don’t want him to be dead.”

“I know,” Pepper whispers. “It’ll be okay, baby. I’ve got you.” 

He lets himself believe her.

* * *

“Hey, Pepper, these forms you signed—”

Obediah Stane stops short. He looks at Peter. Peter looks at him. 

He’s never much liked Mr Stane. Something about him always puts Peter off in a way he just can’t explain. It’s like there’s something hiding behind his bright eyes and wide smiles that is dark and twisted and wrong.

“Kid,” Obie says, folding his arms over his chest as he scans Peter up and down. “You’re looking pretty rough.”

Peter glances down at his knuckles. “Um…”

“Street fight?” 

Obie smiles. It doesn’t do much to reassure Peter. “Well, I was just looking for your, uh, godmother. She forgot to initial a few of these forms. Don’t suppose you could do it for me?”

Peter does his best to smile because he knows Obie doesn’t like it when his jokes fall flat. 

The older man comes over and sets the files in a basket on Pepper’s desk. He puts his hands in his pockets and scrutinises Peter. “Listen, sporto, about your old man—”

“He’s fine,” Peter says. It’s the only thing he’ll allow himself to think, despite the fact that it’s been almost two months with no word, and no one can find him, and there’s a cold hard rock of dread in Peter’s stomach that flips whenever he remembers 

(because sometimes, if even for five minutes, he _forgets_. he forgets and he calls out for his dad to tell him a joke or ask him a question and he is always, without fail, met with silence). 

Obie hums. “We’re all hoping so. And listen, we’ve got our best guys on this—”

“Why weren’t you with him?”

Obie stops. “Excuse me?”

“At the demonstration? You always go to them right? Why not this time?”

It’s a question that’s been grating on Peter because despite it all, he can’t help wishing it were _Obie_ missing instead of his had. He can’t help wondering why Obie wasn’t there, why his dad was all alone, why there was no one to protect him.

Obie sighs. “I uh, had to do this conference in Tahiti—”

“Where’s that?”

“Uh, Polynesia—”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s, uh—listen, how about I hook you up with a globe, alright? I gotta get back though, so just hang tight. Don’t scruff up anyone else, huh?”

The door shuts behind him.

Peter smiles. 

Asking too many questions _always_ gets Obie to leave.

* * *

WEEK EIGHT

* * *

Peter straightens his tie for the millionth time.

“Do I look stupid?”

Pepper smiles. She brushes nonexistent lint off of his stupid sport coat. “You look adorable.”

“So I look stupid?”

“_Peter_.”

“_Pepper_.”

She pushes his hair from his eyes. It’s been trimmed a little because it was getting so unruly. She’d done it herself; whipped out a pair of barber scissors and sat him down at the kitchen table, shearing off the edges of his curls while an episode of _Friends_ played in the background.

“You’re gonna do great,” she says. “I know it.”

“No. I’m gonna get my own name wrong when I have to introduce myself and then I’m gonna trip on my shoelace or attract another bully because I’m a magnet for bullies, or I’ll get shoved into my locker or hit with a dodgeball or—”

“Peter, it’s the _first day._ Take a deep breath.” He does as she asks and Pepper smiles. “You’re gonna be just fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re a good, smart kiddo and if anyone can handle a day in a boring brick building with a bunch of stuffy nerds, it’s you.”

Peter nods grimly. “You’re right. I can do this. I can show the stuffy nerds who’s boss.” He pauses. “Do you think I could keep Honeybear Jr in the bottom of my backpack?”

* * *

“So? How did it go?”

Peter slips into the back of Happy’s car with a grin he can’t keep off his face. Pepper’s smile widens in turn.

“It was good,” he chirps. “Can we get cheeseburgers?”

* * *

WEEK NINE

* * *

“It needs more glitter.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “Kid, it’s half glitter already.”

“She deserves _all_ glitter,” Peter argues. “And flowers. And more hearts.”

He reaches for the stickers and promptly presses a half dozen more against the pink paper. Rhodey hands him the glitter when he’s done with that, and Peter hunches over the card to sprinkle it with purple and silver dust. 

“Okay,” he breathes, leaning back to soak in his masterpiece. “What do you think?”

Rhodey’s smile is big. “I think it looks great, little man.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.” He reaches over and ruffle’s Peter’s hair.

“You don’t think it’s, like, dumb for me to give her one? Because I know she’s not, like, _actually_ my—”

“She’s gonna love it,” Rhodey cuts in. “Take a chill pill, Petey-Pie.”

Peter nods. He’s definitely wound up. But he should be, shouldn't he? Pepper’s given him _so much,_ done so many things for him. It’s only right he does something back.

“Okay.” Peter takes a deep breath and shakes the loose glitter off the card. He then places it on the tray with Pepper’s breakfast: French toast (made by Rhodey), eggs (made by Rhodey), and bacon (also made by Rhodey). Peter had put the flower in the vase, though, and he thinks it looks pretty good.

“You wanna carry it or should I?”

Peter considers the question. The tray does look sort of heavy. “Probably you.”

Rhodey nods. “Smart choice.”

They start down the hall. Peter trails after his uncle, nervously tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. It’s huge on him. He’s pretty sure at one point it had belonged to his dad, but it’s just one of those things that he’s had for so long it’s impossible to know. 

Pepper’s room is dark. Peter scrambles over and flicks on her bedside lamp and that immediately makes her groan. “Not yet.”

“Come on, Pepper, you know you miss me.”

Pepper cracks an eye. She scowls, grabs her pillow, and whacks him. “S’too early.”

“Rhodey’s here.”

“Ask him why he’s not watching you,” Pepper mumbles sleepily.

Rhodey laughs. “So I guess that’s a no on the breakfast in bed?”

Pepper sits up a little. “Breakfast in bed?”

“For you,” Peter tacks on, like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Why? What did you do? What did you break?”

“I didn’t break anything, I promise!”

“Did you let Muffin get loose again?!”

“No!” Peter grins and clambers onto her bed as Rhodey sets the tray down. “It’s, um… it’s Sunday.”

Pepper squints suspiciously. “It is.”

“It’s the tenth of May.”

“That’s the date, yes.”

Rhodey sighs. “You’re both killing me. Pep, it’s _Mother’s Day._”

Pepper freezes. With wide eyes she looks from the tray of steaming breakfast to him and back again. Then without warning she just melts, pulling him into her arms with a whispered _oh my god._

“Is it corny?”

“No,” Pepper shakes her head. “It’s amazing. Thank you _so much,_ sweetie.”

Peter leans against her and tucks his head into the crook of her neck. She smells like lemons and rosemary. “Cool.”

“Kid made you a card, by the way,” Rhodey says. “I helped.”

Pepper picks up the messy, glittery, still-soggy-with-glue paper and grins. _I know you’re not my mom, but if you were, I’d say you were doing a super great job! Happy Sunday, Pep! I love you! - Peter_

Pepper wipes her eyes and sniffs. “You’re too sweet, you know that?”

Peter shrugs. “I learned it from you.”

Pepper laughs. She ends up pulling Rhodey onto the bed with them and they share the food. Peter stays tucked against her until Rhodey has to leave. He’s never able to stay for very long these days, but since he’s always off looking for Peter’s dad, he can’t say he’s upset about it exactly.

Peter hugs him before he goes. “Bye, Yogi.”

“Bye, Boo-Boo,” Rhodey says. “Don’t drive her too crazy, alright?”

“I’ll do my best.”

* * *

WEEK TEN

* * *

“Peter, we’re thinking maybe it’s time to have a funeral.”

Peter stills. His legs stop swinging. He suddenly realises why May and Ben and Pepper had decided it would be a good idea to take him for ice cream after school, even though he hasn’t had dinner yet and dessert after dinner is Pepper’s _first rule._

“You remember Uncle Rich’s funeral, right, sweetie?” asks May, who’s the closest to him. 

Peter nods slowly. 

“But if there’s no…”

“No body?” Pepper prods gently. “It would be more like a… celebration of him. Remembering him. And it would just be us, Rhodey, and Happy.”

“But he’s _not dead._”

May and Pepper shift uneasily, exchanging a glance over the top of Peter’s head. “Honey,” May puts her hand on his shoulder, “I know this is hard for you to accept, but it’s been almost three months with no word—”

“I don’t need _word_,” Peter snaps, scrambling out of the booth. “He’s not dead, okay? He’s not.”

Pepper reaches out. He skirts away from her touch, feeling more betrayed than he ever has in his whole life, even when DUM-E told his dad about how he’d stayed up past his bedtime by showing security cam footage of Peter eating ice cream in the kitchen. 

“Peter,” Pepper tries, “honey, I don’t wanna believe it just as much as you don’t—”

“Then _don’t_.” Peter shakes his head. This doesn’t make any sense. Rhodey is still looking for him, so why would they have some stupid fake funeral for his dad? “I wanna go _home_.”

“Okay,” Pepper says, and starts to rise.

“No,” Peter looks at Ben, who has been the most silent, sitting there with a sick sort of look on his face like he knows exactly how Peter feels. “Ben, I wanna go home.”

Home to the mansion that overlooks the ocean, not Pepper’s mid-city apartment. 

Ben blinks, seemingly startled. He looks at Pepper who nods, and Peter misses the way her features are twisted with pain. 

“Alright, kiddo. I’ll take you.”

* * *

Peter runs straight for his father’s bedroom and burrows deep under the comforter. He clutches the sheets that still smell faintly of his father but, these days, mostly hold the scent of lemon and rosemary. 

He stays under there and he cries. He cries out all the bad stuff: the fear that his father will never come home, the anger that he’s been gone so long and _no one_ can find him, the guilt about hitting Tommy and sometimes forgetting for a little bit that his father is gone. It feels wrong when he does that. It feels like he should always be missing him, always be aching.

Because he knows, somewhere out there, his dad is hurting for _him_.

The mattress dips with a new weight. Peter stiffens and sniffles, but doesn’t emerge from his safe bubble of Pepper and his dad. 

After a few minutes Ben pokes his shoulder. “You still alive under there or did you die of carbon monoxide poisoning?”

Peter makes a face even though Ben can’t see it. “Takes longer than that,” he mumbles.

“Do you know how disturbing it is that you even _know_ what carbon monoxide is? You’re six. You’re supposed to be learning about shapes and shit.”

“M’almost seven.”

“Well, pardon me.” Ben sighs, shifts, and then he’s under the covers with Peter, rolled onto his side so they face each other. “Do you wanna know something?”

“What?”

“My dad died when I was your age. He owned this little convenience store in Queens and I was helping him restock for the night when these two men came in to rob us. They shot him right in front of me.”

Reaching immediately for Ben’s hand, he whispers, “I’m really sorry.”

“That’s okay, kiddo. It was a real long time ago. But even if I was there when it happened, there was still a part of me that didn’t want to believe it was true. For a long time, actually.”

Peter scoots closer. “Really?”

“Really.”

“But this isn’t the same,” Peter whispers. “Everyone is just saying he’s gone when they don’t _know_, but _I_ know. He’s not dead, Ben. I can _feel_ it.”

He’s begging, pleading with Ben to believe him. And Ben nods, wrapping his arms around Peter and pulling him close. “Okay, kiddo. I’ll take your word over anyone else’s.” 

Peter curls into him and for a horrible and selfish second, lets himself pretend that it is his father holding him, that he’s back and safe and here.

Ben kisses his cheek. “We’ll hold off on the funeral, okay?”

* * *

WEEK ELEVEN

* * *

“Pepper?”

“Hey, Rhodey. Listen, I’m just about to pick Peter up from school, but—”

“Pepper, we got him.”

The phone falls out of her grip and clatters against the sidewalk. Pepper stops dead halfway to her car and struggles, truly _struggles_, to breathe.

Fifteen seconds later and she’s fumbling, on her knees, a hand over her heart.

“Pepper? Are you there?”

“I’m… I’m here,” Pepper manages. “He’s—?”

“He’s alive. He’s banged up real bad, but he’s alive.”

Two things happen to Pepper Potts in the space of half a heartbeat: the first is the realisation that she can tell Peter, finally, that his dad is coming home. That everything will be okay. That they can see each other again and be together again, despite how much the prospect of living without him hurts. 

The second is the softer but no-less all consuming realisation that she loves Tony Stark more than she had ever planned to.

“Pepper?”

Standing, she says, “I’m here. Tell me where to go.”

* * *

The plane touches down on the tarmac and it’s like Pepper’s heart settles back into her chest after weeks of being suspended. She hadn’t even realised how tightly she was wound until all of the tension floods out of her the minute the ramp descends and he comes walking—on his own two feet, dressed in a suit and tie, arm in a sling, face covered in healing scrapes.

“Your eyes are red,” he observes, and it’s too casual, too detached. It doesn’t match the tone of the absolutely agonising hell she’s been living in for the past two months. He’s hiding behind a wall. “A few tears for your long lost boss?”

Pepper is smiling. She’s smiling so much that it hurts. “Tears of joy. I hate job hunting.”

Tony studies her for a moment with a little more care, more concern. “Vacation’s over,” he says, and walks past her to make for the car. “Where’s my baby?”

“School,” Pepper replies shakily. “I called the admin to let them know I wouldn’t make it in time to pick him up—”

“Perfect, we’ll make a pit stop on the way to the press conference, then.”

Pepper halts. “The press conference?”

“Yes. I did say that clearly, didn’t I? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Think I might be partially deaf in one ear now after the explosions.”

Pepper’s stomach lurches. _Explosions_.

“You need to go to the hospital.”

“No.”

“Mr Stark, you need to be given a clean bill of health by a doctor—”

He snorts. “Clean bill of health. Yeah, that’s not really in the cards anymore. But enough about that. No is a complete answer.”

“Mr Stark—”

“_Ms Potts._” 

Pepper glances between him and Happy, who holds the car door open for Tony. She purses her lips. “You can’t go to a press conference looking like this.”

“What’s wrong with my look? This is a three piece Tom Ford suit, if you hadn’t noticed. My ass is killing, I saw you looking, Hogan, don’t deny it.”

Happy sputters while Pepper rolls her eyes. “God, it hasn’t even been five minutes and you’re already making comments that could get you sued for sexual harassment.”

“It’s good natured fun. If he’d really looked at my ass he’d be passed out on the ground.”

“You can’t see Peter looking like this. You need a proper cast for your arm, you need to be examined for other injuries—”

“Don’t.” Tony holds up a hand and his eyes are hard, broken, fractured like shattered glass. He’s not the same, not even in the way that she’s not. He’s seen things, done things. “It’s been three months since I’ve seen my son. I don’t care if one of us is wearing a damn garbage bag, I’m gonna hold him and tell him I love him and that I’m sorry—”

His voice breaks and he grips Happy, who immediately catches him before he can stumble. 

“Get in the car,” Pepper urges, because she’s just spotted the press vehicle approaching. “Quickly, come on.”

Less than a minute later and they’re inside, safely hidden behind tinted windows. 

Tony is clutching his chest. Pepper watches him, and while she does she thinks. 

“Alright,” she says after a second, “I’ll send Rhodey to go pick up Peter. He can meet us at your house—”

“Pepper, I swear to god—”

“He _will not_ be anywhere near the press, Tony,” she snaps, and it’s definitely over the line, definitely not her place, he’s _not_ her son but god these days it feels like it and it’s hard to remember a time when it didn’t. “They’re vultures and you know it. We don’t need them asking questions about some kid showing up at a conference he has no business being at.”

Tony studies her, with her chest rising and falling and the probably fierce look in her eyes, the fire that always seems to ignite on Peter’s behalf.

“You’re right,” he nods. “After the conference. We’ll make it snappy. But cheeseburgers first.”

“What?”

“It’s been three months since I’ve eaten anything that has _taste_,” he snaps. “I want an American cheeseburger and then I want to see my son, okay?”

Pepper sighs. She can accept that. “Alright.”

“Alright? Amazing. Drive, Hogan.”

* * *

The minute he’s home, Peter runs to his father’s workshop. 

“DUM-E! DUM-E!” He skids to a halt in front of the robot, who whirs and snaps his claw at Peter’s excited tone. “He’s _coming!_”

DUM-E beeps loudly, all his lights flashing at once. Peter grins. He can’t help wrapping his arms around the bot’s arm. “I can’t believe he’s really coming back. I mean, I can. I knew he wasn’t dead. _Nobody_ believed me, but I knew. I could feel it.”

DUM-E pokes Peter’s cheek like he wants to reassure that he believed Peter even when no one else did.

Peter grins and sits down on the floor in front of the bot. While he waits he tells him about his day at school, because there’s really nothing better to do. 

“It was really stupid. Mrs Davis called on Nathan and he didn’t know the answer, so Amy said it for him, but then Mrs Davis got mad at her for taking Nathan’s turn even though he _literally said_ he didn’t wanna answer. I don’t know. I think she’s just a crotchety old crone.”

DUM-E gives his best nod. Peter rambles on, and then finally works up the courage to ask the question that’s been plaguing him since Rhodey told him his dad had come back. 

“Do you think…” he trails off, picking at a loose thread on his uniform sweater vest. “Do you think he missed me? I mean, I _know_ he missed me, he’s my dad, he has to. But do you think he missed me as much as I missed him?”

The bot, predictably, doesn’t answer. 

Someone else does instead.

“Well, I mean, I can’t say I can measure the exact amount of ‘missing’ you had for me, but I sure had a ton for you, bubble butt.”

It’s like the sun is rising in his chest, like snow thawing after a long winter; Peter hadn’t even realised how _cold_ he was until he’s just not anymore. His dad’s voice washes over him and wraps him up in the warmest blanket. Peter whips around so quickly he gets whiplash, but he doesn’t care.

“_Daddy_.” 

His dad’s smile is soft and gentle and his eyes are full of everything Peter had missed so much. A tear falls and it’s like he doesn’t even notice. “Hey, blue.”

Peter sobs, but he’s smiling, smiling so much that it hurts, and he’s running across the workshop into his dad’s awaiting arms. 

Well, arm. The other is tied back in a sling, pressed between them. But his good one wraps around Peter and pulls him close, and his beard scratches Peter’s cheek when he kisses him there, and again on his forehead, and again on his other cheek. 

“Oh my god,” Peter is saying. “Oh my god, you’re really here. You’re here, right?”

“Of course,” his dad leans back to look at him, smiling too, crying too. “I’m so sorry I was gone for so long, Bambi. I wanted to be with you _so badly._”

Peter sniffs. “S’okay,” he says. “I know.”

His dad puts his hand on the side of Peter’s face and thumbs away the tears. “God, look at you. You’ve gotta be, what, five inches taller? Ten?” Peter snorts, which makes his dad grin. “And what are these? Glasses? Since when do you need glasses?” He holds them up and squints through them. “How can you even see outta these, squirt?”

Peter takes them back but he doesn’t put them on again because he doesn’t need them to see up close, and showering his dad’s face with kisses is awkward with the frames. 

He makes sure to kiss the cuts double.

“Are you hurt?”

His dad’s face goes all soft. “A little bit, baby, but I’ll manage. What about you? Are you okay?”

“I am,” Peter nods. “Now, I mean.”

“I came back as soon as I could, I want you to know that. Every second I was gone I wanted to be with you.”

“It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault. Uncle Rhodey already told me about how the bad guys got you.”

His dad nods slowly, still soaking him in. His fingers card through Peter’s hair and trail along the back of his neck soothingly. “You really are taller.”

“Only by two inches.”

“But you’re still six?”

“Still six,” Peter affirms.

“And you still love me?”

“Five hundred parsecs.”

His dad grins softly. He strokes Peter’s cheek. “Wow. That’s a whole lot.”

“I know. I think it grew while you were gone.”

“That’s crazy.” He shakes his head and then leans forward to press his lips against Peter’s forehead again. “Do me a favour and latch on? My knees are killing me. I think we should get somewhere more comfortable so you can tell me all about your new glasses and this business with Amy and Nathan.”

“You were _listening?_”

“Of course. I’m everywhere, always.”

“Like in my heart?”

His dad smiles. “_Especially_ in your heart.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI ITS ME IM BACK AFTER LITERALLY LIKE SEVEN MONTHS IM SO SORRY

Tony’s been dreaming of the cave ever since he left it. 

It’s almost always the same: him strapped down to that rickety cot while his chest is cracked wide open, and he can _feel_ it but he can’t scream—or if he is screaming, he can’t hear it. But he can hear Peter, somewhere in the recesses of that dark, damp hellhole, yelling for help. 

He can’t move. He can’t get to him. He can’t. He _can’t_—

Can’t breathe. Tony can’t breathe. He’s left planet Earth and there’s no such thing as gravity, he’s just falling, until, 

“Dad?”

Tony jerks awake. Reality comes back quick as he lays stock still, panting, while a tiny form in his shadowed bedroom stares with wide eyes. Hesitantly, the form moves, gingerly reaching over him to switch on the bedside lamp. 

“Hey, kiddo.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. There’s an expression on his face that Tony’s never seen before, like he knows Tony’s about to brush it off. It occurs to him that all of this—him being gone, being presumed _dead_—has to have done more than just frightened his kid. It’s _aged_ him. It’s fucked him up in the same way Tony was fucked up after losing Howard and Maria. 

He had to grow up. Maybe not all the way, but more than he should have. 

“You had a bad dream,” Peter assesses. “Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s nothing Tony can say of course, so he shakes his head and then pulls Peter close, kissing the top of his head. “I’m good. I’m okay now.”

Isn’t he?

Peter bites his lip, still uncertain. Then he asks, “Do you want some cereal?”

* * *

Tony is pretty bewildered as his kid leads him downstairs by a finger. Peter’s got his sights set on this for whatever reason, though. Tony doesn’t remember late night snacks being any cure for nightmares that _he_ invented. 

All on his own, Peter climbs onto the counter to rifle through the brightly colored boxes in the cupboard. He settles on _Lucky Charms_ and then procures two bowls. All the while Tony watches with a tilted head, unable to mask his amusement. 

Peter’s tongue sticks out as he pours the milk. “Eat,” he orders. 

Tony isn’t about to argue with a six year old. He dutifully perches at the peninsula beside his son and does as he’s told. Surprisingly enough, it helps. His stomach stops churning at least. 

“Pretty good, Chef,” he comments, adding some of his marshmallows to Peter’s bowl. 

Peter smiles a little. “Thanks.”

There it is again: that sad, wizened look. Tony gives his stiff leg a nudge. “What crawled up your butt and died there?”

Peter laughs a little, but not as much as Tony was going for. Then his kid shrugs. “I don’t know, just…”

“Just what?”

“Nothing. It’s dumb.”

“Hey,” Tony reaches out and runs his hand through Peter’s bedhead curls. “It’s you and me. We’re the stupidest people alive. Of _course_ it’s dumb. But idiot to idiot, lay it on me would you?”

Peter’s shoulders drop in defeat. Miserably, he meets Tony’s eyes. 

“I can’t sleep,” he whispers. 

“Why not?”

“I miss Pepper.”

Tony blinks. “Ah. I see.” 

* * *

“Hey, so, remember when Pete was like a football big and I used to call you panicking about whether or not he was dying if he so much as coughed, and then you would come over at the drop of a hat and we would sit there and wait for him to cough again, but he’d just lie there and sleep?”

Voice strained, Pepper replies, “Is he okay?”

“What? Oh, dandy, except uh—he misses you.”

“Oh,” Pepper says, like a sigh, like she’s relieved. “Oh, okay.”

“So can you—I mean, I know it’s a lot to ask after everything you’ve already done but—”

“I’m kind of already sitting in my car outside your house.”

Tony tilts his head. “You don’t say?”

* * *

She starts rambling the minute he opens the door.

“I know it’s weird—is it weird? I just, I was worried about him and about _you_ but I didn’t want to call, because what if you were sleeping, you know? So I drove here, but I couldn’t go in because I wasn’t just gonna stand there and watch you both sleep, I mean—that’s weird.”

“Weird,” he agrees. “So you decided to just sit outside like a stalker?”

“I was about to leave.”

“Right.”

She blushes. He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen her this uncomposed; hair hanging in a loose knot, no makeup, wearing a pair of stained grey sweats and a faded band t-shirt. It is… _extremely_ cute, but he’s her boss, so he’s not supposed to think things like that. 

“Pep?”

Peter’s small, surprised voice cuts right through their supremely awkward silence. 

“Peter,” Pepper replies, and then she’s on her knees and he’s in her arms, and they’re hugging like they haven’t seen each other in fifty years. 

“Yeah, pulled her right out of a hat just for you, kiddo. Pretty neat trick, huh?”

Peter smiles for real this time. “Thank you.”

He can’t help smiling back, and tucks his hands in his pockets as Pepper pulls back. “I, um, I know this was all really sudden, so you didn’t get to grab your things from my place—but I have a pair of your pajamas in my bag, and your toothbrush, and Honeybear Jr.—”

Peter’s eyes widen. “I _forgot_ him.”

“It’s okay! He’s not mad! I explained everything on the way over and he promises he’s not upset.”

Peter nods, relieved as he gratefully accepts the bear Rhodey had given him all those years ago. He hugs it to his chest and then looks at them both. “I think I can sleep now.”

* * *

Tony can’t. 

He doesn’t think he could shut down with Pepper so close. He feels wired. It’s strange. There’s one and a half feet of space and a human body between them but all he can smell is her shampoo. 

Pepper doesn’t seem to realise he’s still awake, or if she does, she doesn’t care. She just keeps running her fingers through Peter’s hair, occasionally planting a kiss there. 

“So you two, uh, bonded?”

Pepper starts a little. Her eyes fly to his own. “Tony…”

“It’s not weird,” he says quickly, trying not to focus on her use of his first name and the soft look on her face. “You’re—I mean, you’re his godmother. You just did what I asked you to.”

“Right.”

They’re both quiet for a minute. Outside, a car passes by and the headlights rove over her form. He can’t help following them.

“You know what this reminds me of?”

Her eyes lift again. “What?”

“That little apartment in New York we lived out of after he was first born,” Tony says. “God, sometimes I miss that place.”

“It feels like forever ago.”

“Feels like yesterday to me,” Tony counters, reaching out to stroke Peter’s cheek. “He’s so big now it’s terrifying.”

“Tony…”

“No, I’m not—I just wish I had been here. I wish he hadn’t gone through all that.”

Pepper sighs. “Yeah. Me too.”

He hesitates to ask the next question, but, “How was he? Because for the last few hours I’ve kind of been getting the feeling he’s been putting on a brave face, and I’m pretty sure that I’m supposed to be the one doing that, not him.”

Pepper sighs through her nose and rolls onto her back. “He wasn’t okay.”

“No?”

“No. Neither was I.”

Tony nods. Almost unconsciously he pulls Peter closer so the little gremlin is tucked right under his chin. Peter wriggles a bit to get comfortable and then relaxes. Safe and sound. He’s okay. Tony has him. 

“I’m really sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault—”

“I’m still sorry,” Tony cuts across. “For you. For me. For him. I’ve… it’s come to my attention that I’ve been pretty damn reckless with my life, not to mention with my company. I have a lot I need to work on.”

Pepper is quiet for a moment. Then, “I’m sorry, too.”

* * *

When Tony gets up the next morning, he decides to make breakfast. 

Back in the old days he used to have a chef cooking him three meals a day. Then along came Peter, and with him many mornings of bottle feeding and baby food and so, after a while, Tony had kind of gotten into the habit of your basic eggs-bacon-pancakes situation.

Except, in the months leading up to Afghanistan, he’d sort of started to… slip a little bit. He was spending more time in the garage than he needed to, he was letting things slide, telling Peter to go to Pepper or Rhodey or even JARVIS with his problems. 

Not anymore. He’s decided, it’s official. Months of lying on a moth-eaten cot can turn a person a little introspective to say the least. He’s had plenty of time to think about all of the various ways in which he’s fucked up at being a father. 

So needless to say, he’s pretty pleased with himself when he manages to produce half-decent food. For someone way out of practise, anything edible is a miracle. 

That self-satisfaction goes away the minute he sees Peter.

It actually makes him double take, but no—the uniform is still there upon second glance: a dark blue sweater vest, a tie, a pair of khaki pants and glasses. 

“Uh, what’s that?”

Peter glances up from the book he’d been reading. “Huh?”

“The get-up, bubble butt.”

Peter looks down at himself. His face scrunches up. “It’s my uniform. Didn’t Pepper tell you?” 

And Pepper, who chooses that convenient moment to enter the kitchen, stops short. “Oh—um, Tony, maybe we should talk—”

“You put my kid in a prep school?”

“I just—he was struggling and there was this whole thing—”

“You put my kid in a prep school when I _specifically_ asked you not to?”

“He got into a fight—”

Tony stops short. So does Pepper. He looks from her to his kid and back again. “He got into a fight? You got into a fight, kiddo?”

Peter’s face is red. “This sounds like an adult conversation. I’m gonna go wait in the car. Bye!”

He grabs his bag and an apple from the table, and then hauls ass out the front door. Tony stares after him with his mouth parted and then remembers all at once that he’s angry. He rounds on Pepper. “What the _hell?_”

“He’s going through a lot!”

“Oh, yeah, and transitioning into a fast-paced school with a rigorous grading system at the age of _seven_ is really gonna help with all of that?”

Pepper sighs. “He’s actually been doing really well. And _yes_, he did get into a fight. A couple of kids were insulting you and Peter acted out. His principal sat me down and told me that we could either agree to a suspension, _or_ Peter could transfer to a better school and have the incident expunged from his record.” 

Tony frowns. “He blackmailed you?”

“No,” Pepper says, “he just… pushed us in the right direction. He knew Peter was bored out of his mind there and I agreed—”

“And I did not!”

“And you were _gone!_” She explodes. “You left me with your kid to raise, so I did the best job that I could! If you don’t like it you can pull him, but you and I both know it’ll only make things worse! He’s making _friends_. He’s _learning_. This is what’s good for him. Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Stark, I have a few errands to run.”

She grabs her car keys and goes. 

* * *

When Peter gets home later that afternoon, his first impression is that the house is empty. 

It’s what he’s used to, after all: coming home to quiet, spending a few hours studying in his room before reading or playing with LEGOs or something. 

Today had been kind of rough, anyways, so he’s already too upset to even notice or care. He can’t stop replaying it all in his head; the B- he’d gotten on his History paper, the yelling he’d overheard on his way out that morning, and the general awfulness of knowing that his dad was home but he couldn’t be with him. 

Peter stops short halfway up the stairs. 

His dad is home.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “I’m so stupid.”

He turns on his heel and runs down the spiral steps to the workshop as fast as he can. When he reaches the door he tries to yank it open only to find that it’s locked. 

Frustrated, Peter bangs on it. A few seconds later the light flashes green to admit him. 

Peter’s dad leans down to catch him as he runs up. Maybe it’s stupid or cheesy, but everything just feels so much better. It’s like magic. His dad wraps his arms around Peter and kisses his forehead. They stay like that without speaking for a good couple minutes. 

Then Peter pulls back. “Are you mad at me?”

“Mad at you? Why would I be mad at you?”

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know. You seemed mad this morning, and then you were yelling, and I—”

“I’m not mad at you, baby,” his dad assures. “I’m just… I feel a little bit out of sorts, that’s all. I missed a lot, you know? New school, new glasses, it’s just a lot to take in.”

Peter touches his frames. “Do you think they’re ugly? Because I kind of think they’re ugly. I’m worried I’m gonna get called Harry Potter. I mean, it hasn’t happened yet, but I can feel it brewing, you know? I read the syllabus for next semester’s English and Harry Potter’s on the reading list, so all those morons who haven’t read it yet are gonna and then I’m never gonna live these down.”

His dad raises an eyebrow. “Nobody else wears glasses at your fancy folk school?”

“They all wear _contacts_,” he proclaims with an eye roll. “Well, there is one girl, and I feel super bad for her because she’s totally gonna get stuck as Moaning Myrtle until we graduate. At least Harry Potter is cool, you know? Myrtle just lives in the toilet like a sad turd and whines all the time—” 

His dad is grinning. Peter stops short. “What?”

“Nothing. I just missed you.”

“Well I missed you, too,” Peter replies promptly. “What are you doing down here, anyway?”

His dad hums, readjusting Peter in his arms so he can stand and show him around. “It’s sort of a secret.”

“How secret?”

“No one in the world knows except me. And now you, because you’re basically an extension of me. It would be like not telling my arm or something.”

“I’m your arm?”

“Would you rather be my left butt-cheek?”

Peter snorts. He climbs onto his dad’s back. “Show me?”

“Okay. Alright. First we need to take a little walk down memory lane…”

* * *

“So it’s like, a suit?”

“Si.”

“Made of metal.”

“I’m thinking titanium alloy for this version, but oui.”

“Powered by _that thing,_” Peter taps the arc reactor, “in your chest.”

“You are correct, sir.”

“You have a battery in your chest.”

“_Ja._”

Peter frowns. He crawls into his dad’s lap to stare at the blue-tinted light. They’re on the floor now, hiding behind a desk in case Pepper decides to stop by for her usual nightly check-in. Peter bites his lip. “They hurt you,” he whispers. “Like, really hurt you, didn’t they?”

His dad’s face softens. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“But they did, didn’t they?”

“Pete…” He sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah, they did.”

“Does _this_ hurt?”

“No,” his dad quickly assures. “No, it doesn’t. It’s what’s keeping me alive. See, when the bomb went off, my chest… I got hit. There are still pieces of metal in my chest and _this_ handy little guy is what’s keeping them from hurting my heart.”

Peter frowns. “What if it turns off?”

“It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s like… the world’s longest lasting battery of all time. Takes lifetimes to run out of juice.”

Peter squints at it. “But what if there’s something wrong with the wiring?”

His dad laughs. “There is, actually—only a little problem before you freak out. I’m gonna have Pepper help me fix it tomorrow.”

“But why not me?”

“Why not you? I’ll tell you why not _you_, Mr. Potter: this is a job for grown-ups, something which you are decidedly _not_. Besides, it’s gonna be gross and I want to tease her a little bit.”

“Isn’t she mad at you?”

“Probably,” his dad kisses his cheek again, “but again, grown up stuff. I’ll apologise and everything will be fine.”

Peter nods. Absently he traces the rim of the reactor through the material of his dad’s shirt. It’s not warm to the touch or anything. In fact it’s cold. He feels a sudden sense of loss, remembering when he was smaller and he’d rest his head right in this very spot to listen to his dad’s heart beating. 

“Hey, why the long face?”

“Hmm? Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I just… you want a popsicle? I feel like we should eat popsicles and then watch Star Wars.”

His dad studies him for a beat longer, and then he says, “Sounds like a plan,” and just like that their entire dynamic shifts. It’s the first time of many Peter will remember caring for him instead of being cared for. 

* * *

Two weeks pass. 

Pepper sidles up to Peter one day. They’re both staring at his dad through the windows of the workshop.

“What is he doing?”

Peter takes a bite of his granola bar. “I really couldn’t say.”

* * *

It’s two in the morning when his dad comes home from the charity gala. 

“Lights, JARVIS.”

His dad freezes in the doorway to the living room. He doesn’t look so good, and Peter kind of immediately regrets staying up so late just to make sure he made it back okay. 

But he steels himself again and rests his elbows on the back of the couch. “Hi.”

“Hey,” his dad says slowly. “Might I ask just what the heckity-heck you’re doing out of bed?”

Peter shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You left and never came home. Thought you were gonna help me with my math homework.”

With slumped shoulders, his dad walks over and plops down on the couch. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes in the epitome of Adult Stress and then sighs. “God. I’m so sorry, peanut.”

“It’s okay,” Peter wriggles against his side and drops his head into his dad’s lap, “I didn’t actually need help. Just wanted to be around you.”

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say. His dad looks down at him all sad and brushes Peter’s hair out of his eyes. Then he kisses his forehead. “I know I haven’t been the best dad in the world lately, but I don’t want you thinking it has _anything_ to do with you. I’m just trying to… I want to help people instead of hurting them for once. I want to build instead of destroying everything.”

“I know. That’s why you stopped making weapons, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So you could build your suit instead.”

“Exactly. But see—God, holy crap, I can’t believe I was actually about to unload my baggage onto you: a seven year old. _Wow_. I’m a disaster, it’s official. And hey, look at that! Bed time!”

Peter tries to worm away. “No!”

His dad grabs him by the waist and throws him over his shoulder. “Sorry, but you have a lifelong subscription of tickets to the bed train and they’re non-refundable.”

Peter grins. “Can I at least sleep with you?”

* * *

Tony takes a long time dressing down and when he finally flicks off the bathroom light and practically falls onto the mattress, Peter is already curled in a ball with his head under a pillow. 

Tony lifts it and joins him. 

“So what’s the deal? You wanna tell me why you were waiting up for me like an old grandmother?”

Peter presses their noses together. “I don’t like it when you’re gone.”

“No? Fun fact: I don’t like it either, but sometimes I have no choice, you know?”

Peter touches his jaw. “I just… I have to make sure you come back, okay?”

Tony’s breath hitches a little and he covers it, pretty smoothly in his opinion, by shifting the angle of his head to kiss Peter’s forehead. He tries not to think about the implications of his son’s words, about all of the fear wrapped up in them. 

“Listen,” he says, “I know that you’re scared it could happen again, but I promise it won’t.”

“How can you? It’s not like you knew it was gonna happen the first time—”

“No, I didn’t, but I came back right? And I’m stronger now. I’ve got my glow-in-the-dark ticker, I have my suit.”

“It’s not even ready yet.”

“_Actually_, J is just finishing up the final rendering and I’ll be taking it out for a test drive tomorrow morning.”

He doesn’t elaborate on the rest of it: on where exactly he’ll be going, on the rage that’s fuelling him; not only at the Ten Rings but at Obie himself for dealing under the table, for supplying those bastards with everything they needed to commit acts of terror. 

Peter springs up with new energy. The pillow goes flying. “Really?! Can I come?”

Tony pulls him back down. “_No_, you may not.”

“But _why?_”

“Because it’s dangerous, blue.”

“So then you shouldn’t be doing it either.”

“Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong: it’s dangerous for kids, not adults,” Tony says. “Besides, I have a little bit of practise already. Everything will be fine.”

Peter pouts and forgets, just for a second, about the arc reactor. He hits the corner of his head on it instead of plopping it down on Tony’s chest like he’d intended to. “Ow,” he grumbles, rubbing the temple Tony hastily sits up to inspect. 

“Are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up? What’s your middle name? Five times six?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Fine, three, Anthony, and thirty,” he drawls. “It didn’t hurt that bad.”

“Are you sure?”

“_Dad_.”

“Okay, okay,” Tony raises his hands pacatingly. “I get it, you’re all grown up, you don’t want me fussing—”

“I’m _not_ all grown up,” Peter proclaims somewhat irately, and then practically tackles Tony to burrow against him. He tucks his head under his chin. 

Tony’s chest fills with warmth. It’s ridiculous the things this kid can do to him. 

“Okay,” he says, threading his fingers through Peter’s curls and leaning back. “Alright.”

They find a new way to sleep.

* * *

The next night Peter finds his dad in the lab. 

“What are you doing up?”

Peter shrugs. “What are _you_ doing up?”

His dad squints. “Clever tactic, answering my question with a question. You’re learning.”

And Peter, who really isn’t arrogant by nature, sort of feels like that’s true. But it’s not anything he prides himself on. If anything it makes him sort of sad because he can’t help thinking about the reasons _why_. 

He clambers onto the stool next to his dad and stares at the disassembled suit-parts on the table. “Did it work?”

His dad absentmindedly strokes back Peter’s curls. “Hand me that Phillips, will you?” he says by way of an answer.

Peter does. He waits, and watches, and then gets sort of sleepy. He rubs his eyes and yawns and then asks the thing he _has_ to ask, the one he can’t _not_. “Did you hurt anyone?”

His dad stops unscrewing. He sets the part down and turns to face Peter full-on. “You and me, we have a good thing going, don’t we? We’re honest with each other. I want you to feel like you can come to me with absolutely _anything_, okay? But there are some things that I… I really just can’t tell you. It’s—”

“Adult stuff?” Peter asks, unimpressed.

A sigh. His dad runs a hand down his face. “I saved people today,” he says softly, after a minute of silence. “But I had to hurt people to do it. Bad people. Does that… is that okay?”

Peter, being as young as he is, doesn’t really register the significance of that: his own father asking for permission to do this incredibly dangerous thing, to risk his life all the time because his heart is so big and bleeds for everyone. He doesn’t get it and so he takes his dad’s hand and traces the lines of his palm and thinks about how big and strong he is, so much bigger than Peter, and he says, “I guess so.”

Years later he will remember that moment, and he will wish so, so badly that he had said, “No.”

* * *

It happens quickly after that. 

The days blur together and though Peter is occupied with school, he doesn’t miss the underlying tension throbbing beneath the surface of every waking moment like an infected wound.

His dad’s eyes are darker. His movements are robotic. He’s angry. Peter has _never_ seen him so angry in his whole life.

It all comes to a head one night. Peter is lying on his stomach in his bedroom, trying to finish his homework early enough so that he can spend the rest of his evening assembling his newest LEGO kit or, if his dad isn’t acting too strangely, maybe they could hang out instead. 

But that’s not what happens. 

His ears perk at the sound of something breaking. There are other noises, but he doesn’t fully register them as he tears out of his room and barrels down the stairs.

The first thing he sees is his dad: lifeless, paler than pale, eyes bloodshot and staring right at him. They’re screaming something that Peter can’t hear. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t junior.”

Peter finally notices Obie. “What did you do?” He demands. “What did you _do?_”

“You know, it’s interesting,” Obie squints down at him. He’s holding Peter’s dad’s arc reactor and the glow of it makes his features look darker, more evil. “I’ve been looking after your father his entire life: taking care of his business affairs, managing his money… and he never once suspected a thing. But _you_,” Obie leans down and grins. “You’ve always known, haven’t you? Never warmed to me. I tried to hold you once when you were a baby and you screamed your damn head off.”

“Boo hoo,” Peter snaps. 

Obie clicks his tongue and then, in one swift movement, backhands Peter. His right temple smacks hard against the floor, and his vision swims with black spots. 

Obie looms over him. “Do you have any idea just how much I hate you, kiddo?”

Peter rolls onto his back. “You could never hate me more than I hate you.”

Peter only realises he’s been kicked after it happens. The first one is aimed at his stomach, then another to his chest, and the last one to his head—hard enough to knock him out cold.

* * *

There are brief flashes of memory that slice through the dark: 

His dad is shaking him, touching him. Then Rhodey is there and he’s saying, “Tony, _Tony_, you need to go. Take care of Stane, I have Peter!” 

And then warmth: Rhodey’s arms, Happy’s panicked voice from the front seat—

Bright light. Loud voices, beeping, hands on his body. 

More dark.

* * *

Peter is asleep for sixteen hours. 

For a good chunk of them Tony is right by his bedside: Peter’s surgery lasts just about as long as Tony’s fight with Stane, and as soon as it’s over he plants himself in the world’s most uncomfortable chair and just watches his kid breathe.

He can’t remember being so terrified in his entire life.

First there had been the horror upon the realisation that he was unable to move; that Obie, a man who he’d believed he could trust, had as good as ripped his heart from his chest and left him utterly powerless. 

But it had been _nothing_ compared to the sheer terror that had coursed through him when Peter had come downstairs. He had been unable to move or speak; he was completely helpless to save his own son. He’d been forced to watch him get beaten within an inch of his life and then _after_, Tony had been forced to make a choice: 

Crawl downstairs, find the old arc reactor, and go after Obie. 

Or crawl over to Peter and die with him. 

Thank God for James Rhodes. 

Tony had gone for the arc reactor and upon reflection it was probably more of an act of desperation than the first step at getting revenge; he’d followed his baseline, instinctual urge to survive, and he’d done it in the denial that if he at least had a working ticker he could maybe do something to help Peter.

Then Rhodey had shown up. He’d found Tony half-unconscious in the workshop and like always, he’d put Peter first. They’d both agreed it was the best course of action. 

Now, Tony sits alone, resting one elbow against the pale yellow blanket covering his kid while he reads from his favourite book. “‘Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy—’”

“Daddy?”

Tony’s head snaps up and he opens his mouth to say something, an apology, but all that comes out is, “Hey, baby.”

Peter’s eyes are cracked open only a little. His head is tilted, wrapped in a bandage that he reaches up to touch with confusion. Tony gently lowers his hand. “Don’t, okay?”

Peter’s lip trembles and his eyes start to tear up and instead of touching his head, he touches Tony. “Daddy,” he sobs, clutching at Tony’s chest and then his arms. “_Daddy_.” 

“I know,” Tony whispers, holding him as best as he can, but there’s so much to work around, so many bruises; his wrist is in a cast and so is his leg because his kneecap had been shattered when Obie had stomped on it. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, _so_ sorry, kiddo.”

“I thought you were gonna die,” Peter sobs into his chest.

“Me? You thought _I_ was gonna die?” Tony leans back, stunned at the realisation that Peter isn’t even crying for _himself_. He blinks. “_Blue_…”

Peter sniffs and tries to wipe his face only to realise he can’t. Tony does it for him, one-armed because his other is in a sling. Jesus, they’re quite the pair. He tries to be as gentle as he possibly can. 

“He hurt you.”

“Baby, he hurt _you_.”

Peter reaches up with his good hand to touch the scrapes and cuts on Tony’s face. “We’re not dead, right?”

“No,” Tony breathes. “No, we’re here. We’re real. Feel.”

He presses Peter’s fingers to his wrist. Peter’s relief is fucking palpable. He pulls Tony’s arm up so he can rest his cheek against the spot. Tony, in response, cradles Peter’s head. 

“Are you in pain?” 

A nod. 

“I’m gonna go get the nurse.”

* * *

She’s in and out quickly, but patiently explains everything to Peter: how he can press the remote on his bed if he needs her, how he can adjust his sitting position to what feels most comfortable. She goes over all of his injuries with him and tells him, softly, that he’ll probably have a scar on his head—but, she adds quickly, it’ll fade with time and his hair will absolutely cover the worst of it.

Peter doesn’t even seem to care about any of it. He just nods and says thank you a lot and only almost cries once—when she says the cast on his leg will be there for six weeks. 

Then she’s gone. Tony hovers bedside Peter until his son reaches for him, so he perches on the edge and strokes his flushed red cheek. 

“You’re really brave, you know that?”

Peter shakes his head. “Which one of us is a real-life super hero, dummy?”

Tony grins. “I see the sarcastic part of your brain is still intact.”

“That’s all of my brain.”

He laughs and can’t help saying it, “I love you,” just because. He leans down and presses a kiss to Peter’s forehead. “God, I love you like crazy, did you know that? And I’m so proud. I really… I couldn’t be prouder of you. There is _no one_ on this planet who has an ounce more courage in their whole body than you do in your pinky finger.”

And he means it, because he can’t stop thinking about how small Peter was when he was first born and how much strength it took just to make it from that first day to the second; he thinks about how resilient Peter has been this entire year, taking Tony’s loss and moving forward and beating up bullies in his name. And then, with Obie… god, he’s gonna cry again. It’s gonna happen, he can feel it coming on.

Peter shakes his head, grabs his remote, and presses the ‘up’ button until they’re practically nose to nose. Then, with his good hand and his plastered one, he cups Tony’s cheeks.

“I love you twelve bajillion parsecs.”

Tony laughs tearfully. “That’s crazy.”

“_You’re_ crazy. I’m only—I’m only brave because of you,” he whispers. “I’m only strong because I watched you be strong and learned how.”

Tony kisses the crown of Peter’s head again, lightly, so he can’t see the tears fall. 

After a minute or so of Peter tucked into him, his kid asks, “Do you think the scar is gonna be ugly?”

Tony leans back. “No. I think it’s gonna be badass.”

“Will it be big?”

“Probably not, no,” he says, softly stroking Peter’s hair back again. “We can work around it with a haircut, too, don’t worry.”

Peter nods. His eyes start to droop, soothed by Tony’s touch. 

“You sleepy?”

Peter hums in response. “Read to me?”

Tony retrieves the book from the stand by the bed and opens it to where he’d been before. “‘To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn't matter.’”

* * *

“I hate sponge baths,” Peter proclaims on a Sunday morning, three days after The Incident. 

“Really? I always thought they were nice.”

Peter raises an eyebrow at Pepper. “When did you get sponge baths?”

She hums as she cleans the back of his neck. “I broke my leg in freshman year,” she tells him. “I was a cheerleader, believe it or not. One of my teammates was supposed to catch me and she didn’t.”

Peter winces. “Rude.”

Pepper laughs. “Very.”

They’re quiet for a minute. Peter watches the TV mounted in the corner of his room; they’re replaying footage of yesterday morning’s Stark Industries press conference, but the volume is muted so Peter’s dad is only mouthing words. Even still he has them memorised.

“I am Iron Man,” he whispers in time with him, and then twists around to look at Pepper. Grinning, she turns his head back straight. “Everything is gonna be different now, isn’t it?”

She clicks her tongue. “Maybe. Time will tell.”

“You’re so cryptic, Pepper.”

“And just where did you learn a big word like ‘cryptic’?”

“My English class,” he says proudly. “I also learned ‘cynical’ and ‘calamity’ and ‘chastise’—that one made me think of you—”

Pepper scoffs. “You’ve got a mouth on you, Peter Anthony.”

“I know. I can see it when I go like this—” he pushes his lips out and looks down, and she laughs out loud, wrapping her arms around him from behind to kiss his cheek. It makes him smile. “Now you’ve got your mouth on me.”

Pepper wipes his back dry. She’s silent for a minute, and then, “Everything will be fine, I promise.”

And Peter’s only seven, but he’s also sitting in a hospital bed with his leg in a cast and his head all sewn up. “You can’t promise that.”

Pepper hums. “That’s very _cynical_ of you.”

“Well I just think that after this _calamity_ you shouldn’t _chasten_ me for that.”

She snorts and moves so he can lay back, and then she puts her hand on his forehead like she’s feeling for a fever—only she’s not, she just does that sometimes. It’s her way of connecting, he guesses. 

“Do you still hate sponge baths?”

“Yes,” he pouts. “I miss real baths.”

Pepper rolls her eyes. “Tell you what: when you get this thing off,” she taps his cast, “we’ll take you to the biggest bath there is.”

Peter’s brow furrows until Pepper says, “The ocean, kiddo.”

* * *

It’s around Christmas when Peter is finally set free. They crack his cast right down the middle: a clean, ridiculously satisfying sight, and he laughs with pure joy. 

Of course, he’s still on crutches now—though Tony elects to forego them in most instances and just carry his little poop nugget everywhere—and he’ll be in physical therapy for a while, not to mention the monthly CTs and…

Peter raps his fist against Tony’s forehead. They’re sitting in the living room by the fireplace, and for the last hour he’s been reading out loud with Peter curled up between his legs. 

“You stopped,” Peter says. 

“Sorry, squirt,” Tony pushes his curls back, “I was just thinking.”

“About going to the ocean?”

Tony frowns. “Uh, no, can’t say that was it.”

“But Pepper said when we got my cast off I’d go to the ocean.”

Tony hadn’t been made aware of such arrangements, and to save face he says, “I’m sure she didn’t mean the literal _moment_ you got it off, blue. It’s December, it’s too cold to swim.”

“That’s okay!” Peter says. “I just wanna see it.”

“Baby, it’s night.”

Peter wraps himself around Tony and stares up at him. “Please.”

They both know very well that Tony isn’t able to refuse that face. 

* * *

He bundles Peter up in a sweatshirt and jacket and carries him outside. ‘Seeing the ocean’ isn’t exactly new or exciting given that they live right by it, but it’s been a long time since Peter’s been to the beach itself. 

At night, the ocean is far from tropical or vibrant or serotonin-inducing. It’s black and chasmic and the only light to see by is the moon, hung high in the sky and reflecting off of the lightly-rocking waters. 

“Are you sure you don’t wanna—?”

“Shh,” Peter says. “Can you set me down?”

Tony obliges, more curious than anything else, and watches as Peter slowly sits. He buries his fingers in the sand and closes his eyes. 

“Baby?”

“I’m just feeling,” Peter whispers. “And thinking.”

Tony sits down beside him. “What are you thinking about?”

His kid tilts his head and looks out at the ocean. “The moon is an old lady.”

“Pardon?”

“Yeah. She’s like an old grandma in a rocking chair and we’re the baby. I’m an undigested cookie in a belly full of milk—”

Tony starts to laugh. He really just can’t help it. Peter laughs too and grabs at him, all _Dad, this is serious!_ as he climbs into his lap. 

“Do you ever think about how we exist at the same time?”

That takes the laughter right out of him. “What do you mean?”

“Like, I just… I would be so sad if I didn’t have you. I just know it. I feel like… like you’re my moon. I feel like if you’re not there to pull me I would just go crazy and start spinning and spinning and…” Peter shakes his head, frustrated like he doesn’t think his point is getting across—but that’s the funny thing about kids: sometimes they say the most profound shit and assume it’s bumbling nonsense.

“Peter…”

“I think about how the universe is always stretching and growing and stuff and it scares me. But then I think about how much I love you and it just makes sense.” He wipes away a tear. “It has to grow because there’s just so much.”

There are moments when this kid makes him feel like he’s gonna explode. 

This is one of those moments. 

Tony wipes Peter’s face dry with the sleeves of his sweatshirt and shakes his head. “You know something?”

“What?”

“I think no matter what we’ll always exist at the same time. I think we just work that way. You’re a part of me, bubble-butt. You’re leeching off my life-force like a little fungus—” 

He starts to tickle Peter, who laughs and squirms away. Tony catches him and blows a raspberry against his stomach, and they’re getting sand all over their clothes but he doesn’t care. 

“I knew taking you out here at night would make you all existential.”

Peter’s face scrunches up. “What does that word mean?”

“Oh, a word you don’t know? How shocking—”

Peter whacks his shoulder. “Just tell me?”

“It means you’re a philosopher.”

Peter stares. 

Blinks. 

“Okay but I don’t know what that is, either—”

Tony laughs harder than he has in a long time. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D

**Author's Note:**

> pls tell me what u thought i am just a Smol eager for feedback i adore you all


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